Pinwheel.

Life goes by like the turn of a pinwheel planted firmly at the foot of an ancient, crumbling tombstone. It's bright blades spin around and around; a fuchsia blur that twirls surely, despite it's weather-beaten limbs. The grass grows high and surrounds it, menacing. But the rain-rusted and sun-crisped pinwheel does not falter. The tiny pink rose of vitality, a tribute to a life lost and forgotten, spins on and on, whispering in the wind, "I'm here! I'm here!"

--

The first thing I've written in about a week. I'm very happy with it.
It was written to be read softly, with the words in quotes just a breathy whisper. But most people don't read that way. I'm not quite sure where I was trying to go with it, like a majority of what I write. It started out as a life-is-short kind of thing, but it ended up as a make-your-mark kind of thing with some life-is-short mixed in. But anyway, I'm pretty happy with this. It's short, like a lot of things I tend to write.

Life is good. :)